


Le Chevalier Mal Fet (The Ill-Made Knight)

by penny_dreadful



Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Angst, Destiny, Forbidden Love, M/M, Scars, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-20
Updated: 2012-10-20
Packaged: 2017-11-16 16:01:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/541282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penny_dreadful/pseuds/penny_dreadful
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is a comment-fic that got too big for its britches. Written for <a href="http://leavesoflorien.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://leavesoflorien.livejournal.com/"><b>leavesoflorien</b></a> for her prompt, "Arthurian lit, Lancelot/Gawain, Le Chevalier Mal Fet". It follows<a href="http://community.livejournal.com/comment_fic/86490.html?thread=19653338#t19653338"> this.</a></p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a comment-fic that got too big for its britches. Written for [](http://leavesoflorien.livejournal.com/profile)[**leavesoflorien**](http://leavesoflorien.livejournal.com/) for her prompt, "Arthurian lit, Lancelot/Gawain, Le Chevalier Mal Fet". It follows[ this.](http://community.livejournal.com/comment_fic/86490.html?thread=19653338#t19653338)

Lancelot wandered the castle, his feet bare. His hands were wrapped in bandages. When he stretched his arms upward to the vaulted ceilings he could feel scar tissue stretching with him, tight and hot. 

Moonlight streamed in through the windows, and he paused to turn his face to it, silent. Clouds moved too fast across the moon's face and he wondered for a moment that he couldn't feel the wind of their passing even through the keep's stone walls.

There was a screech of metal on metal from behind him, and he turned slower than he would have liked to find a figure facing him, bare steel in his hand, clothed only in shadow. His slimness was achingly familiar, his face dim and strange. Lancelot took a step back - not from cowardice but from curiosity, trying to draw the nameless opponent into the light.

His foe stepped forward after him, the moonlight silvering his hair and his highlighting luminous blue eyes. Lancelot barely had time to feel his heart stop at the expression on Gawain's face before his friend was lunging at him, slim blade pressed to Lancelot's breast.

And he realized he, too, had no clothes but shadow, his scarred chest fluttering with his heartbeat against the painful-bright tip of Gawain's sword. They circled one another, dancing between moonbeams. He wanted to talk - ask what it was that he'd done, to inspire the anger in Gawain's face, ask what he'd done for the sword in his breast - yes, in, because Gawain was sliding forward and forward and it was an aching, tearing pain and his lips would not move, his voice caught on the blade and pressed out his back in rivers of red.

He wakes up shaking and silent, his fists twisted in his sheets. 

The next day, Merlin tells him what he has seen. He speaks with no passion, with sympathy and with no judgement, but it is a statement of face. You will. Lancelot falls back abed with his mind on fire.

This time Gawain's mouth was wide open and mocking, spilling out words of love that Lancelot has not yet said, yet they are in his own voice - things in his heart that he would lay open for Gawain's ears if such a thing could even be dreamed of. And yet he was dreaming of them - but twisted and wrong, his words bitter in his lover's mouth, more painful than the long, bright sword.

He wakes dark-faced and withdrawn, and nothing that his friend says now makes what his friend will say any softer.

In the third dream, he was in the throne room, the windows dark. Two new scars, puckered and angry, marred his chest where two nights before this he had died. He stared at the throne, emptied, at the two, at where the Lady Guenivere (his Queen, how...she was as unattainable as Gawain! And perhaps that...) and King Arthur should be, should always be for the rest of time, where they would be but for him.

And he turned, almost resigned, to meet eyes like blue fire. And Gawain pushed it in, in, in, pulled him up, up, up along the blade and pressed his soft lips close to Lancelot's ear. His voice is full of all the sorrow that's hidden by the mask of rage on his face, and he murmurs dark and low, "They were my brothers."


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** Le Chevalier Mal Fet (The Ill-Made Knight)  
 **Fandom/Pairing:** Arthurian literature, Gawain/Lancelot  
 **Wordcount:** ~4000  
 **Disclaimer:** Um, as far as I know the Arthurian legends aren't copyrighted, but much of my inspiration and characterization comes from T. H White's  The Once and Future King.  
 **Warnings:** Suicide themes, scarring, mention of self-mutilation, angst angst angst.  
 **Note:** This is a comment-fic that got too big for its britches. Written for [](http://leavesoflorien.livejournal.com/profile)[**leavesoflorien**](http://leavesoflorien.livejournal.com/) for her prompt, "Arthurian lit, Lancelot/Gawain, Le Chevalier Mal Fet".

He starts hearing the stories four months after Lancelot has disappeared. Of a new knight far to the west, an unbeatable giant who refuses to remove his helmet. Rumors are spun and scattered to the winds as to why - he is Moorish, he is horribly scarred. Some even whisper that he might be a woman, but those whispers die as he continues to rise in strength, adding victory after victory. No woman could be so successful on the field of battle.

The "scarred" theory gains favor, and the nameless knight earns a title: "Le Chevalier Mal Fet." The Ill-Made Knight.

Gawain thins his lips and waits.

The summons comes around the six-months mark, and he bows readily before his King. Arthur bids him rise. He sits, golden and shining upon his throne, his russet queen at his side, and smiles.

"You have no doubt heard, my loyal friend, of the new knight to the West, whom none can defeat."

Gawain nods, and waits. He does not smile. It has been six months, perhaps, since he truly has.

"We have spoken with our advisors..." Arthur's eyes shift left, to where Merlin sits like an owl, blue-golden eyes watching and knowing and just a little bit sad, "...and we find it best that he be made part of our Round Table. You shall ride out, Sir Gawain, and you shall return with him. It may be that you must defeat him first, but our hope is that he will come with you willingly."

It is an honor to be a part of the Round Table. The highest kind of honor. For anyone to refuse it would be equal parts foolishness and disgrace. In other days, Gawain would have said so, would not have been able to contain himself for the love of his King and Court.

But his love of his brother-in-arms, his love of his friend, chokes him. For Lancelot walked away from that honor with not a word spoken, not a reason given. And Gawain cannot think of words that describe Lancelot _less_ than "foolish" and "disgraceful", unless it be "cowardly", and he had -- he had _run_.

So he keeps his lips thin, curled in a smile like the edge of a knife, and bows to his King. "I shall not disappoint, Majesty."

Arthur's eyes are kind. "You never do."

Merlin catches his reins as he is about to set off, one moment a shadow the next a man. He looks up at Gawain through lashes like snow, his face serious. "Bring him back." He says. "You must bring him back, not matter what he says, no matter what he does, no matter what he offers you or threatens you with. You must. You will."

Gawain looks at him, uncomprehending. He knows in the back of his mind that this is important, this is necessary, this is more than just the retrieval of a promising knight, but it has been a long time - almost seven months now - since he was able to truly care.

He's hoping, in a vague sort of way, that the road will cure his frozen mind. He shakes his reins free from Merlin's hand with a courteous, "My Lord," and sets off down the road. Merlin's voice lingers in the curl of his ear, like smoke and shadows.  It's soft, nearly a whisper, and so full of sorrow that even Gawain's muffled heart hurts, though he does not know why. "I am sorry, Gawain. I am so sorry."

Being out alone on the road does help, surprisingly enough. His voicelessness is less disturbing when there are not a thousand voices all about him. He fills up with the silence and is almost content, to stare into the flames of his fire and wait for sleep to come. He does not dream, and wakes as the sun does, mounting his horse and riding on.

He stops in several hamlets, along the way, to offer his services in return for food and board. The townsfolk have not seen many knight, but fortunately their awe comes in the form of stares and blushes rather than endless questions and their inns are warm and their bread thick and filling.  They blur together, one after another, and the winter cold fades. Spring comes, and Gawain thinks, _Nine months._

Mostly the villagers need him to do things like kill boars and clear snow, but as the icicles overhead begin to melt and crash down like glass, and green buds appear on the trees, he's needed less and less. He begins to pay for things with money, and he begins to pay for more than food and bed.

People's tongues are loosened easily by drink and gold and this far West Le Chevalier Mal Fet is already the topic of much speculation. Gawain gains directions to the castle where last he was seen, a guest of a minor Baron. The barmaid who tells him does so with perhaps more winking and wiggling involved than necessary, her bosom straining against her thin shirt, and Gawain turns away with twisting lips and courteous excuses.

He rides to the court of Sir Bliant. His heart is beating again as his horse's hooves hit the mud. He feels as if he is reaching something like an ending and something like a beginning. Because he suspects, oh, he suspects and he very nearly _knows_ who this faceless, nameless knight will be. Over the months he has examined it, examined why Merlin was so sorrowful, why it was he that Arthur sent over his other men. Lancelot had been his...friend, though their bond went deeper than that. Was truer than that. Gawain loved him as strongly as a brother but not quite _like_ one, and he'd thought that perhaps Lancelot had reciprocated. Before he'd vanished.

He does not know what he will say, when he sees him, but he knows that finally, finally, he will be able once more to truly _speak._

He wonders if he will strike him.

He wonders what would happen if he did.

He wonders what he will look like, after so long.

He wonders whether Lancelot knows, as he does, how long it has been, precisely, since he left. _Ten months._

The Baron is kind to him, welcoming and warm, and Gawain finds himself able to smile back without feeling like he is grimacing. When he dares ask about the Baron's mysterious guest, though, the Baron's smile falters. "He does not join us, for meals." He says. "He requests that they be brought down to him. He does not leave his room much at all, but for the tournaments, and I have...I have only seen his face twice." He closes his eyes. "It is not something I will describe in proper company, Sir Knight. Suffice to say that his choice to wear his helmet is out of decency, rather than some love of mystery."

Gawain stares at him, throat closed entirely. "Then...then his _is_ scarred?" he manages to get out, over his disbelief. Not Lancelot. Surely not. Had he come all this way for nothing?

He must have, for the alternative...

He remembers Lancelot's face. Gods, he doesn't think he will ever forget it, nor would any that had laid eyes on his smile - his true smile, when he was surprised into good cheer, startled into a laugh. His lips were red as any lady's, curled slyly and perfectly. His teeth were white and glinting and his eyes, his eyes shone with a dark, secret amusement that time after time Gawain had wanted to pull from him, taste on his own lips, share. And sometimes, sometimes Lancelot's eyes would meet his and there would be a moment where Gawain thought that Lancelot might be longing as much as he did.

He cannot imagine - he _will_ not imagine - that face as anything that could not be described in "proper company".

He needs proof.

He follows the kitchen girl to the rooms downstairs, deep beneath the castle, and then manages to slide through the doors while her back is turned. He hides until she goes away - leaving the food on the table by the door - and then ventures inwards on silent feet.

He finds Le Chevalier Mal Fet asleep, in the vast four poster bed, a sheet thrown loosely over his legs. His back is to Gawain and the knight's breath hitches, because the line of his back is horribly familiar, the curve of his hip eye-catching and _right_. He's naked, and the skin of his back is unmarred and perfect and pale. His shoulders are dotted with freckles and...something else. Gawain takes a step forward, and sees that the flesh on his shoulders is pink and puckered. Scars. Thin, even scars, far too regular to be from any battle, stripe the perfect flesh, curving over his shoulders and down his chest. He circles the bed, his heart heavy, his feet leaden. The scars continue down his chest, disappearing into a criss-crossed mass of thousands more, some shallow, some deep. Some are new, unbandaged, some just barely scabbed over. Among the straight lines and random cuts Gawain can almost see letters, words, obscured by the layers of cuts over and under them but still almost readable. _Fate_ , he sees, and _death_ and _no_ (or perhaps it's the beginning of _nothing_ ) and something that looks like _I am sorry._...

Le Chevalier shifts, and his arm falls from his side, and Gawain sees, carved into unbroken skin with shaky, tortured letters, his own name.

"Lancelot," He breathes, voice broken, and Le Chevalier wakes. He sits up immediately, his eyes widening, and for the first time Gawain's eyes land on his face.

He almost laughs aloud, because only Lancelot could...could do _this_ to himself, and still be beautiful.

Unlike the mass of mangled flesh that is his chest, the scars along Lancelot's face are almost artful. A smooth scar crosses the bridge of his nose and underlines his eyes, another coming to cross it from the center of his forehead. That one should have taken his eye - and if the ragged cuts around it are any indication, Lancelot had meant it to. But his eyes remain intact, now widening in fear and shock and something like elation, as well, though it's so buried in confusion that Gawain cannot really recognize it. His lips, too, are just as red and just as perfect as Gawain remembers, though a thousand scars try to mar their edges and drift away as if repulsed. Gawain finds himself wanting to reach forward and trace them, see if they are soft, see how they could repel the knife and whether they would repel him, as well.

He doesn't think they could.

Lancelot seems to realize he's staring and moves to hide his face in his hands, but Gawain darts forward catches them and holds them steady. Startled, Lancelot looks up at him, and he's close, so close, no longer a thousand miles of wilderness separating them, no longer the tenth month of time.

"Why?" Gawain breathes, and he's asking so many things - _why did you leave, why didn't you tell me, why didn't you take me, why did you do this to yourself, why does my heart beat only when you look at me_ \- and he doesn't know which he wants Lancelot to answer first.

"I'm a monster." Lancelot says, eyes dead. "I just thought..." His lips twisted bitterly. "I should look the part." He turns his face away, and Gawain notices a line of scars across his throat. Scars left from cuts that should have killed him. Fascinated, horrified, he releases one of Lancelot's hands to trace his fingers along them. He registers Lancelot's words and scowls. "A monster? What madness is this?"

Lancelot shivers and closes his eyes, but he doesn't pull away. Neither does he answer. "Why are you here?" He asks, broken, "Why not let me have at least this small portion of peace?"

Gawain opens his mouth to answer, _Arthur_ , opens his mouth to answer, _Merlin_ , but what comes out is, "I do not think I can live without you."

Lancelot stares at him, and Gawain flushes. "I can breathe," he admits. "My heart can beat, my mouth can eat, but these are not the things that make life _life_ , Lancelot." He runs his thumb across Lancelot's knuckles, idly noticing the long scars on his wrists. "Please. Come back with me."

Lancelot wrenches his hand away, and Gawain swallows. He can see tears glittering in the corners of Lancelot's eyes, but the knight will not look at him. "You do not know what you are asking of me."

Gawain takes his face in his hand, turning it towards him. "I am asking you to...to be with me, to be _mine._ " He lets his thumb smooth across Lancelot's scarred cheek, watches as Lancelot shakes. "It is something you have thought of." His other hand traces down Lancelot's bare side, curling his knuckles into the scars of his name. "Why do you refuse me?"

"It is not you I am refusing." Lancelot looks up at him, dark eyes even darker with such _longing_ that it makes Gawain's breath hitch. "I _am_ yours." He says, soft, so close that his breath ghosts across Gawain's lips. "In every way that matters, I am yours." He closes his eyes and swallows, like it's the hardest thing he's ever said. "But I _cannot_ return with you to Camelot."

Gawain closes his eyes, too, stands bent at the waist next to the huge bed, letting his fingers explore the newness in Lancelot's face as well as the curves and angles that he has long wanted to map. "Tell me why?"

He can hear Lancelot swallow, follows the movement of his throat with long fingers. "I am destined to be traitor." Lancelot whispers. "I am destined to betray my king, I am destined to betray my honor, and...and _you_ I am destined to betray twicefold, Gawain."

Gawain keeps silent. There's a weight to his friend's words, a rasping undertone that says, _you are the first to hear this._

"I will betray you first by offering love to another." Lancelot says, his voice almost cold. Matter-of-fact. "And she will take it, yes, she will take it even with this face. My queen will love me and it will be her ruin."

Gawain's eyes fly open. "Your queen? You love Guinivere?"

Lancelot is crying, tears running silent over his lined face.. "No!" He says, loud, harsh. "No, no, I do not, I love _you!_ " He catches Gawain's wrists, desperate, a little mad, and Gawain kneels in front of him, making soothing noises. Lancelot is almost childlike in his despair, curling into Gawain's embrace, his limbs hanging heavy at his sides. He shoves his face into Gawain's neck, and when he speaks his mouth presses the words into Gawain's skin. "But I will." Gawain's eyelids flutter and he tilts his head, giving Lancelot more room. "Because Merlin does not lie."

"Merlin told you this?" Gawain asks, his arms coming up to embrace Lancelot to him. "This is why you...you left?"

Lancelot nods and pulls away. He stands, turns towards the fireplace. "I thought I could escape it." He says, soft, bitter. "I thought if I ran far enough...and then when they wouldn't stop, I thought I could...If I was dead, I couldn't do it, right? If I died before it happened, Arthur would remain king, Guinivere would remain pure and you - " He stops. "But I couldn't do it. I tried - gods, Gawain. I tried everything. But it seems...it seems I _cannot_ die. Not until Fate has had her mad way with me."

Gawain stands, stares at him. "You can't - "

Lancelot turns to him. "Look." He points to his throat, the scars lining it, points to his chest, where an near perfect-circle of puckered scars surrounds his heart. His stomach, too, is a mass of re-healed tissue, and his wrists no better. "I have tried poison..." He says. "I have tried exposure. I have tried the noose and the knife and the flame. Nothing works. I just...I hurt, and I hurt, and I hurt, and then I heal." He looks lost, hopeless. "And even after I realized that I couldn't achieve death, the pain gave me hope that maybe... And isn't it what I deserve, a monster such as myself, endless pain and no relief?"

Gawain swallows against a throat so dry it's painful. He takes a step forward, and Lancelot looks almost _afraid_ of him. "It is not monstrous to love a woman." He says, softly. "Guinivere is beautiful and gracious - "

"Is't not monstrous to bring down the greatest kingdom of man?" Lancelot interrupts. "Is't not monstrous to betray one's love, one's king, one's queen, is't not monstrous to slaughter in cold blood the brothers of the man one loves?"

Gawain stops. He looks at Lancelot where he stands framed against the fire. The red light makes harsh the scars across his face, across his body, and for one moment and one moment only Gawain sees what makes him horrifying. "What?" He asks.

Lancelot's smile is twisted and horrible. "Oh yes." He says. "Oh yes, I had not named that second betrayal that I put upon thee, Gawain. Your brothers, dearer to thee than any. It is my blade that cuts them down."

Gawain clenches his fists at his sides. "You're lying."

Lancelot shakes his head, still smiling oddly. " 'Tis with Merlin's words I speak." He says, and he leans down and picks up the poker from the fire.

Gawain watches him. His heart feels - stopped, his mind as well, like none of this can even be registered. Lancelot reverses the poker, barely wincing as he takes in his hand the red-hot metal, and offers the handle to Gawain.

The air smells like cooked meat, and still Lancelot is smiling. "The dreams show you doing it." He says. "The only pain that remains, your blade through my heart. So take your chance, Gawain. Strike now before _I_ do, save your brothers. Save your king and queen." He pushes the poker towards Gawain, presses the handle to his chest. "Kill me."

Gawain takes the poker. Lancelot releases it with a sigh like relief, like contentment, and stands silhouetted in front of the flickering flames, spreading his arms, opening himself up to welcome death. "It will be a swift kill," He says, as if to soothe Gawain. "The fire cleanses as it burns. There will not be much pain."

Gawain looks down at the hot metal in his hand, up at the man he loves, the man who loves him. The man who will kill his brothers and betray his trust. He can see it happening - see Lancelot's face twisted with a mad sort of satisfaction as he stands over them, Gareth, Gaheris, Agraivane. Their bodies are bloody, and so is his - they did not die without fighting. But he can also see, here, now, the things that even the _promise_ of their deaths has done to Lancelot, the hell it's played on him, written out in scars as clear as his own name. He can see that the satisfaction is not his own, but Fate's, and Lancelot smiles with it because he is taken over by Her.

Gawain drops the poker and shoves Lancelot sideways into the wall. "Stop this." He growls. "You will _stop_ this. Are you trying to drive me mad?" He can feel himself snarling, his hands at Lancelot's throat, and Lancelot stares at him. "If Camelot will fall I am as much to blame as you, for without me you would not be a knight, without me Guinivere would never have seen you."

"You could not have known." Lancelot shakes his head, swallowing. "What's done is done."

"And if it is Merlin's words you speak, then so is what will be!" He shakes Lancelot, and Lancelot won't look at him, won't meet his eyes. "Lancelot. Look at me!" He grasps Lancelot's chin in his hand, forcing his eyes up. "You are naught but the unlucky head of the hammer. Fate has forged this plan to hurt you from the very beginning, Lancelot. You have the momentum of centuries behind you, the smith's whole arm, his whole body, and _yes_ , that means there is nothing you can do to stop it." His voice softens. "But it also means that it i _s not your fault_."

He steps back, breathing hard, and Lancelot slumps, wearied, but staring at him with a mixture of wonder and fear. "If Merlin does not lie," Gawain says, "Then you will be returning to Camelot with me." He drops his eyes. "I would prefer you do it willingly, but I do not doubt that if you resist me, I will overpower you." He smiles. "You may have been gone for ten months but I still _know_ you, Lancelot. You may be invincible to blade and might, but love can bring you down."

Lancelot looks up at him through dark, wild curls. "Love will bring it all down." He murmurs, and then laughs, short and sharp. Gawain, startled, laughs as well, and then they both are, chuckling and shaking with mirth, with the drama of it all, with the inevitability. Lancelot is smiling, truly smiling for the first time since Gawain arrived and Gawain is physically rocked with its beauty, even through the scars and the weariness and the dirt. Before he can think about it he leans forward and presses his lips to Lancelot's, laughter to laughter, and Lancelot gasps into his mouth with surprise. After a moment he kisses back, slow and savoring, almost sad. He opens his eyes and he's so full of wonder that Gawain again realizes how young he is. How beautiful.

"You still...want me? Even with..." He gestures, taking in the whole mess of his chest, the lines that cross his face.

Gawain grins at him, suddenly cheeky and free and _alive._ "What's good enough for the queen is good enough for me," He teases, and hooks a hand around Lancelot's neck to pull his close again. But Lancelot dodges, looking uncomfortable, and Gawain presses his forehead to his. "Listen." he says. "When I first knew you were Le Chevalier, and that the scarred rumours were true, I was...I was terrified, to see what had happened to you. What you'd done to yourself." He chuckles. "And then I come in here and when I saw your face..." He shakes his head. "Only you, Lancelot du Lac, can scar yourself and _enhance_ your beauty."

Lancelot blinks at him. "You...you _like_ them?" He's pressed all along Gawain, now, and Gawain lets a hand trail up and down his naked side. "Mmm." He hums. "I think I do. Because they remind me...they remind me no matter what you will do, I can't do anything to you that is worse than what you have already done to yourself." His other hand traces across Lancelot's cheeks. "How could I be angry at this face?"

Lancelot just stares. "I wasn't trying to drive you mad," he says, "But I think I may have succeeded."

"No." Gawain kisses him again, quickly, and then presses a kiss to his cheek, to his forehead. "No. The way that we do not go mad, Lancelot, is that we recognize that now is now." He kisses his way down the other side of Lancelot's face. "Let the future be the future." His hands drop to Lancelot's hips, his thumbs tracing small circles there. "I only get you for a little while." He murmurs against Lancelot's jaw, mouths down his neck. "Show me that you're mine?"

****

They return to Camelot amidst cheers and gasps, the crowds firstly elated to see Lancelot's familiar colors and then horrified to see his face. Lancelot had left his helmet off at Gawain's request, and he closes his eyes against the whispers of the court. Gawain brushes against him, reassuring, as he dismounts, and then bows low to the King and Queen, who wait on the steps.

He stands off to the side as Lancelot greets Arthur, his face unreadable. He watches as Guinevere gasps, her hands flying to her mouth. He watches as her eyes turn sympathetic, as her hand lingers just too long on Lancelot's arm.

He catches Merlin's eye and remembers the day that Lancelot disappeared. It seems like a thousand years ago, now, a thousand heartbreaks and a thousand pleasures. _One year_ , he thinks, and Merlin shakes his head.

_One year and one day._   



End file.
